Ashton Park (25 page)

Then she saw his plane. She recognized the letters on its side. She saw its wheels throw up dust and stone as it touched. His goggles were up—and it was his face and eyes. She began to run as hard as she had run in her life.

Her nurse’s cap spun from her head as she flew past pilots and ground crew toward his plane. The closer she got the more detail she saw—holes in his plane’s fuselage, tears in the fabric of the wings, long streaks of black oil smearing the engine cowling.

“Michael! Michael!”

He had cut the engine but the Sopwith Camel had not rolled to a stop before he saw her and heard her as she raced toward him, her uniform white against the brown uniforms of the men that ran beside her, white against the green of the airfield, against the gray and blue of the November sky. He vaulted from the cockpit and she threw herself into him, her hands grabbing hold of his leather jacket, her lips covering his, tears making tracks through the grime and dust on both their faces.

Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free,

How shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?

Wider still and wider shall thy bounds be set;

God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.

God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet.

The choir finished singing and sat down in their loft behind Reverend Jeremiah Sweet. He stood in his collar and robes and faced the congregation, eyes soft and dark behind his round glasses.

“This is a service of thanksgiving,” he began in his mild yet firm voice. “Thanksgiving that the war is over and that we remain a free people. I welcome you, in particular our many guests, including my wife’s family who have traveled up to Ribchester by motorcar. I’m grateful you have joined us today.”

Sir William acknowledged the welcome with a slight bow of his head. Lady Elizabeth, Sir William, and Victoria sat in a pew with Emma and the two boys. Aunt Holly, Lady Grace, and Sir Arthur were down the pew on the other side of Emma. Peter and James sat in small suits in their mother’s lap, each just shy of turning a year old.

“I confess I have conflicting emotions this first Lord’s Day after the Armistice. On the one hand, I am thankful to God that the fighting is over and that our armies have not been defeated. On the other hand, I know only too well from my service in the trenches what a price Britain and her allies have paid in securing our victory and our freedom. Indeed, all of Europe has paid a terrible price. There are many who will never sit in their church pew again in Oxford or York or Blackburn. Many more will never walk again. Or see with their eyes. Some will never speak. Some will never hear.

“Still others will not sleep again, not as they slept in 1913 before the artillery and machine guns and the bombs from the sky and the poison gas. Before they saw their friends dead beside them. Before they saw children lying motionless in their shattered homes. Before they themselves took another man’s life. Now their pillow will seem thin to them and their bed hard. Now they will wake with a shout in the night thinking they have heard shellfire or the rush of approaching troops who come with rifles loaded and bayonets fixed. Now they will close their eyes and see the slain, and they will open them again and find no rest. The price war has exacted for our liberty and well-being in these islands has been dreadful beyond all that we feared when our sons and brothers and fathers and husbands marched along Piccadilly in 1914.”

Jeremiah paused to turn the pages of the large Bible in front of him with his good hand. “I am reading from the Gospel of St. Matthew, chapter 25, verses thirty-four to forty-six:

Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee?

And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

Then shall he say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels: For I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.

Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?

Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me. And these shall go away into everlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal.
”

Jeremiah looked back up and his face was pale, almost deathly, so that his wife Emma shrank back into the pew, holding her sons more closely, startled at the change that had come over him. It looked as if he had been struck a blow by the words he had just read out loud to them all.

“Do you know what I fear? That the sacrifice will have all been in vain. That we shall go back to our daily lives and return to gossip, to slander and cheating and thievery. Even worse, that we shall once again hate and hurt and let our petty grievances and bigotries and prejudices rule the day. We told ourselves we were fighting for a better world, but if we make it the old world again, what have our fathers and sons died for? Why have we buried them in shallow graves from Flanders to Verdun? If it was just to make the world a crueler place, well, we didn’t need to fight a war to do that. We had hoped the blood and the suffering and the bravery might lead to something more. Something extraordinary.”

He ran his wooden hand over the pages of the Bible. “Care for the sick. Feed the hungry. Clothe the naked. Bring hope to those in prison. Can we do that? Are we able to extend that kind of mercy? Do we have that kind of heart? Can we treat the less fortunate as if they were Christ himself? That in their faces are set His eyes, that when we take their hands we touch the hands of God? I pray to the Lord we have that better world, and that we fight for it as valiantly now as we have just fought in the skies and in the fields and on the high seas. Let us come before our Savior.”

Victoria was astonished to see her father drop to his knees as Jeremiah prayed a final prayer. He knelt on the bare floor, hands clasped, head bowed. Even during the singing of the last hymn, as all rose, he remained where he was. Lady Elizabeth, who still only spoke to him when absolutely necessary and as briefly as possible, leaned down and placed a hand on his shoulder.

With the service over and people talking and moving and shaking hands, Sir William got to his feet. The first thing he did was take a startled Lady Elizabeth into his arms—they had scarcely touched in three months.

“I do not wish to embarrass you,” he said in a voice rough with emotion, “but I see what a fool I have been. I have let the past determine my future instead of freeing myself from centuries of bitterness and forging a new destiny for the Danforth name. I pray to God it is not too late.”

He hurried through the bodies around him and down the aisle to where Harrison and Todd Turpin sat.

“Have either of you heard from Mrs. Longstaff?” he asked abruptly.

“No, sir,” responded Harrison.

“I have not, Sir William.” Todd stood up. “None of the household has as far as I know.”

“But if she were still in London, where is it she is likely to be?”

Harrison held his brown fedora in his hands. “She has kin down by the docks.”

“Might she be there?”

“If she’s still in London.”

“Where else would she go?” Sir William tapped his top hat against the side of his leg. “I expect they have any number of eating establishments in that area for sailors and dockworkers?”

“So they do, Sir William, but no fit places for a lady.”

Sir William set his hat down next to Harrison and pulled on his gloves, the lines around his mouth and under his eyes sharp. “I did not leave her much choice, did I, God forgive me. We must make haste. You will drive us to the nearest station and we will catch the first train south.”

“What about the motorcar?” asked Harrison.

“We shall leave it parked at the station. Return for it once our task is completed.”

“What of the rest of the family?”

“They can remain at the vicarage or join us as far as Liverpool. We three must carry on for London, where we shall stay until we have found dear Mrs. Longstaff and rescued her from my sin and my folly.”

Harrison and Todd Turpin glanced at each other.

“If ye don’t mind my saying so, sir,” Todd spoke up, turning his flat tweed cap around in his hands, “London’s waterfront is not a place for the likes of ye, a gentleman and a Member of Parliament and all. Let Harrison and me take care of matters.”

Sir William shook his head. “I appreciate the gesture, Todd Turpin, but that’s out of the question. I put Mrs. Longstaff there and I shall bring her out. Even if I must disguise myself as the scoundrel Bill Sykes in
Oliver Twist
or as a drunken sailor off a garbage scow.” He glanced along the church’s aisle and spotted his wife and Victoria approaching. “Gather them up, Harrison. Gather them up and let’s be off.”

Kipp sat with his arms folded and eyes closed outside Ben Whitecross’s hospital room. Next to him Christelle was teaching Libby medical terms in French, smiling and speaking words and phrases that Libby repeated over and over again. Michael Woodhaven stepped quietly out of the room. Kipp opened his eyes.

“Still sleeping,” said Michael softly.

“How’s his breathing?” asked Libby.

“It’s good. Better than yesterday when they brought him down to Paris from Amiens.”

Libby got up. “I should take a look. Thank you, Michael.”

“My pleasure, Miss Danforth.”

Libby laughed. “Stop that. I’m Libby to you. How long do I have to put up with this?”

“I have a two-week leave. The war’s over. Uncle Sam doesn’t need me anymore.”

Kipp closed his eyes again. “They want my help in turning our aerodrome over to the French. But I’ve still got another week in Paris. Looks like you’re stuck with me and the Yank.”

Libby smiled. “I suppose I can bear up. But can you, Christelle?”

Christelle was smoothing back Kipp’s hair as he tried to doze. She laughed. “I will do my best.”

Two officers marched down the hallway toward them and stopped.

“You are Major Kipp Danforth?” asked the tallest one, who sported a trim black mustache. “Son of Sir William Danforth MP of Ashton Park in Lancashire?”

Kipp rose quickly to his feet and saluted. “I am, sir.”

“Colonel Byrd, RAF, and this is my adjutant, Leftenant Arbuckle.”

Arbuckle saluted. “Major.”

Kipp returned the salute. “What’s this about?”

“Stand easy, Major. It’s about a chap in your squadron. I’ve spoken with every one of your men and not a few German pilots and now I’d like to hear from the squadron leader. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way. I understand it’s only a day or two old.”